Three and Out (55 page)

The health of that bursa sac would determine if Rod Smith's family bought a house or continued to rent; whether Tony Gibson's kids had to move again and say good-bye to their friends; and whether the entire “Rich Rod experiment” at Michigan would be deemed a success or a failure.

It was a multimillion-dollar pyramid turned upside down, pointed directly on that knee.

It might not be fair, and it certainly isn't sane, but after building up this athletic empire for 131 years, football had become the public face of the university.

*   *   *

Denard Robinson's day started at 6:30, in his off-campus condo. He hit the snooze once, then twice, before turning on a light and getting out of his warm bed to put on a pair of jeans, a red polo shirt, black Adidas shoes, and his letter jacket. Then he hopped into his roommate Devin Gardner's family pickup truck, an old Dakota 4 × 4, with a tool box behind the cab.

Robinson rolled into Schembechler Hall by 7:00, two and a half hours after the strength coaches arrived for their own workouts. When he stumbled into the locker room to put on his team shorts and T-shirt for treatment, he was met by a picture on the locker room door of the Paul Bunyan trophy:

Home at Michigan State University since 2008.

Since 1953: 34–21–2.

Robinson looked half-awake when he walked into the training room, but athletic trainer Phil Johnson was fully alert—he'd been there for an hour already—and Denard's left knee was all Johnson needed, anyway, not his brain.

Robinson's knee was still swollen so badly you couldn't delineate his kneecap. When he lifted his thigh, he winced, and that simple motion was the basic building block of every move he had to make to play quarterback—like running and throwing.

So Johnson went to work. He started by putting Kenisio tape, which spreads out like spiderwebbing, on Denard's knee. Next, Johnson attached a few electrodes to Denard's knee and thigh, which sent small shocks into his muscles, forcing them to contract. Phil then elevated the knee to get the fluid draining out of it, followed by low-level laser therapy, pulsed ultrasounds, and Inter-X—whatever that is.

After an hour of treatments that looked like voodoo to a layman, Robinson went to a side room for some rehab work.

“All this stuff helps the swelling some,” Johnson said, “but it really keeps it from stiffening up. Once that happens, you're screwed.”

Robinson was game for everything they threw at him, except swallowing NSAIDs like ibuprofen, which help reduce swelling. “I don't like medicine,” he said.

“On a scale of one to ten, ten being an injury requiring surgery, he's about a four,” Johnson said, putting Denard through his paces. “He's got a swollen bursa sac, but at least it hasn't burst. Jake Long burst one of his right before the spring game, and his whole leg turned black. Not pretty.” Long played anyway, adding to his legendary status among trainers and teammates.

Next up: the cold tub, which is kept at 50 degrees, the same temperature as Lake Superior in October. It's cold enough to inhibit pain, decrease swelling, increase function—and make Denard's lips turn purple. The trainers provided the players with foam socks to cover their toes, but that's the only mercy they were shown.

“The worst part,” said the Florida native, who had never been in such cold water. “I'd rather work out with Barwis than hop in here.”

Robinson started to get out after seven minutes, but Schmidt said, “You really should go fifteen.” He left it up to Robinson.

“Awwww, no!” But he slowly forced himself down in the water, grimacing the whole way. “‘Y'all got it made,'” he said, mimicking the typical comment of his classmates, who would not wake up for a few hours, if they decided to go to class at all. “That's what everyone thinks. They don't see this!”

By nine o'clock, the sun was finally showing through the frosted window by the swim tank, which was Robinson's next stop. After he spent twenty minutes walking back and forth in the tank—which, at 90 degrees, was much nicer than the cold tub—Johnson measured the circumference of Denard's thigh, knee, and calf, all of which were a quarter inch less than when Denard started that morning.

The voodoo of the Michigan medicine men was working.

After Robinson showered, he entered the last phase of the morning routine: taping. Every day, half of the 120 Michigan football players get their ankles taped, which requires one roll of Johnson & Johnson athletic tape for each ankle. The trainers tape 120 ankles a day, from early August to late November, plus fifteen practices in December when Michigan's in a bowl game, plus fifteen more practices during spring ball. That's about 18,000 rolls of tape, or 600 boxes—about $45,000 worth. Before they started wearing custom-fit knee braces in practice, it used to be much more.

But that's a pittance compared to the team's budget for meals. During fall football practice, the training table meals served from Monday through Thursday cost more than $400,000. Tack on the weekend hotel meals, the bowl game meals, and the spring ball meals, and the total passes $1 million (to say nothing of twelve nights in hotels for seventy people and support staff)—or about $10,000 a player per year.

If you divide the cost of salaries for football coaches and staffers by 120 players, it comes to $57,000 per player per year.

But the biggest cost is still tuition. Few fans or reporters realize it—even many of the players don't—but the university does not set aside eighty-five free passes each year for football players. The athletic department writes a check for every single scholarship athlete—some 500 at Michigan—paying the actual tuition for both in-state and out-of-state students each semester, down to the penny. In 2010, that exceeded $15 million, of which roughly $4.2 million went to football players—or about $59,000 per scholarship player who attends school year round.

By the time a fifth-year scholarship senior from out of state graduates from the University of Michigan, his school has spent over $580,000 on him, whether he's an All-American or a fourth-string, long-snap center—and that does not include the Academic Center, strength and conditioning, facilities, administration, athletic trainers, or tape.

When people argue it's time to start paying players, they usually miss two vital points. First, Michigan's is one of only a handful of athletic departments that make a profit, and it had lost money in the years between Bo Schembechler and Bill Martin. If you pay one quarterback, you had better pay the women rowers the exact same, or you've violated Title IX. Once you start doing that, watch colleges start folding teams they can't afford.

For those who say the NCAA has yet to stamp out illegal payments, and therefore colleges should stop the charade and pay the players, would they make the same argument that because the IRS has failed to stamp out all tax cheating, the IRS should be abolished? Should state troopers stop giving out speeding tickets because they have failed to stamp out speeding?

Second, such critics don't realize the athletes are already being paid quite a bit, whether they're any good or not. And if you don't think $295,000 for five years of out-of-state tuition is compensation, tell that to the parent of an engineering student from Chicago. Likewise, ask professional boxers or Olympic triathletes what they pay for coaching and training.

The average player gets a very good deal financially. Only a very few, like Denard Robinson, make more money for their school than their school spends on them. The only sensible solution, I've always believed, is for the NFL and NBA to set up viable minor leagues to give those rare stars a real choice—the same option high school hockey and baseball players have.

What no college athlete has, however, is free time.

While Denard got dressed, the TV overhead scrolled the runner: “Denard Robinson Big Ten Player of the Week for third time in five weeks.”

Viewers reading that probably thought Robinson was having a hell of a time.

*   *   *

At 9:40 a.m., Denard hopped back in Gardner's dad's pickup truck and dashed up State Street to grab his roommate.

The modest first-floor apartment was bright, clean, and neat. “That's because we're never here!” Gardner said.

The duo dashed to the truck—with boxes of Hi-C and bags of Hostess Mini Muffins in hand—and headed back down State Street to their 10:00 class: Crime, Race and the Law. They passed Mike Kwiatkowski, the walk-on who made the team during the fall tryouts. He had just won Scout Team Offensive Player of the Week.

“Hey, that's Mike, the walk-on,” Denard said.

“Yeah, tight end,” Gardner added.

“He can play!” Robinson said. “Got the body, too.”

“Now, you got to wonder,” Gardner said, “how does a guy like that get missed by
everyone
?!”

The two dashed to the Dennison Building and snuck into the classroom three minutes late. They would be marked up for that, it would get back to Rodriguez, and there would be consequences. Robinson found an empty seat against the right wall of the packed classroom. Gardner sat in the middle among the “normies.”

Professor Scott Ellsworth, a middle-aged white man, started discussing a documentary called
Murder on a Sunday Morning
, which explored a case of mistaken identity in Jacksonville, Florida. It resulted in fifteen-year-old Brenton Butler, who was walking by to apply for a job at Blockbuster that morning, being accused of murder, but ultimately being acquitted.

“Was Brenton Butler guilty of anything?” Ellsworth asked.

Most of the white kids said no, but most of the African Americans disagreed: wrong place, wrong time, they said.

“Was he even in the wrong place?” one woman asked.

“He wasn't at home!” Gardner said, getting a laugh. But Gardner was anything but a class clown, raising his hand more than anyone else during the eighty-minute class. Robinson wasn't afraid to speak up when the spirit moved him but was usually content to take notes in his spiral notebook. He used a mechanical pencil with a thin lead and wrote in careful penmanship, which leaned left—a sign of an introvert. By the end of the class, he had written a page and a half, a little more than the suburban student sitting next to him.

“This shows, in part, the weakness of eyewitnesses as proof,” Ellsworth said. “Let me show you. Everyone look at me. Right now. Good. Now, without looking back, tell me what Denard is wearing.”

Gardner didn't miss a beat. “He's wearing red-and-black shoes, blue jeans, a red polo shirt, and a letter jacket!” His classmates, most of whom knew they were roommates, got the joke.

They broke into groups to answer one question each. When Robinson's had hashed out theirs, he slipped off to the bathroom before the class came back together to go over their questions. It was one of the few concessions he had made to his newfound fame; if he tried to go during the break, he'd be stopped too often to get to his classes on time.

“Okay, Group D,” Ellsworth said to Robinson's circle. “Your question: If you were accused of a crime, would you prefer a black or white attorney?”

In the group, Robinson decided he would want an attorney who was the same race as the jury, but he had since modified his answer. “If I was in a racist town, I'd hire a white attorney,” he said. “But if I was in a normal town like Ann Arbor, I'd just get the best lawyer I could get.”

Ellsworth offered a “closing thought, paraphrasing Winston Churchill on democracy: The American justice system is the worst in the world, except for all the others. What do you think? We'll pick that up on Thursday. In the meantime, read Franz Kafka's classic,
The Trial
.”

The class wasn't quantum physics—which was being taught down the hall—but it wasn't rocks for jocks, either.

While Robinson packed his things to go, a coed slipped him a small handwritten note, which he tucked away.

He walked out with Kelvin Grady and Devin Gardner across the Diag for lunch. He peeked at the note: “For your eyes only,” written in purple ink. “You seem like a really nice guy and I think it'd be cool to hang out with you. And no, I'm not a creepy stalker! Text me some time.”

Robinson grinned and shook his head. Grady demanded to see it, then started laughing immediately. “Ahhhhh! Same note I got!” he said, then pointed to Gardner. “Same note
he
got! Did she go like this?” he asked, tilting his head back as he slipped Robinson the note with a bent wrist.
“This is for you.”

Robinson's grin answered his question.

Robinson wanted to go to Wendy's in the Michigan Union basement, as usual, but Grady argued for Noodles & Company, at the far end of the Diag. “Come on, man, I'm trying to
expand
your horizons!”

“I like Wendy's, man.”

“But it's
rivalry week
!”

“Exactly why I don't want to change my routine.”

People walking past often looked twice but said nothing, until a frat boy finally asked, “Excuse me, are you Denard Robinson?”

“Yes, I am.”

“I just want to thank you for all you do for this university,” the young man said, shaking his hand. As soon as the student was out of earshot, Grady and Gardner started laughing.

“Pardon me, are you Denard Robinson?” Gardner asked, wide-eyed. They weren't making fun of the fan but of Robinson's new status.

“See?” Grady asked. “You're a
celebrity
now.”

“Oh, yeah, oh, yeah,” Gardner chimed in. “Big maaan on campus!”

“Can't be seen eating with the little people at Noodles & Company!”

Robinson grinned but was clearly uncomfortable. “Man, you know that ain't right,” he said quietly.

“So long, Heisman hopeful Denard Robinson!”

Robinson got his favorite, Wendy's Spicy Chicken #6 Combo, then sat with his friends and teammates. The woman at the next table looked up from her anthropology textbook to ask, “How's your knee?”